Drinker's Game
by Ava Chanel
Summary: and to every moment, Mal has a drink.


**A/N: **_A little one-shot on Mal's lowest point when Inara leaves Serenity._

**Drinker's Game**

_"Go get lost where no one can be found_  
_Drink so long and deep until you drown_  
_Say your goodbyes, but darlin' if you please, _  
_Don't go without me..."_

- The Civil Wars, C'est La Mort

**Summary: **_and to every moment, Mal has a drink._

He fancies himself a drink, that one.

Or maybe six.

Whatever it is, he seems to have lost count by the eighth glass.

He keeps going, with no one daring to stop him.

It's practically a ritual, how he pours, amber liquid swishing and swirling inside.

Then he knocks it back, hissing as it burns something fierce down his throat.

No one knows to what he drinks, or why. No one has enough courage to ask him. Best to leave him alone, that one.

There's an aged sorrow to his features that implies a long and hard life. He won't be afraid to draw on you if you get too close, even less hesitant to shoot you where you stand. It's there, in the creases by his eyes and his temple. It's there in the depth of his indigo blue eyes, so tired and bloodshot. It's in the way he hunches over his drink, his strong back curving forward like a predator.

Mayhap it's the war he's lost.

Or the faith he once had.

A drink for every soldier lost in battle, under his command.

A drink for every bullet he's buried into another person, snuffing out the life.

A drink for all those he's loved and lost.

Or mayhap, it's a drink for a woman who has long gone and left him.

A woman he didn't even fight for, hadn't even tried.

Over one hundred ways, one hundred different words he could have used to make her stay.

Could have grabbed her, looked her in the eyes and told her that he needed her, right there with him. On his miserable little ship. The ship she brings so much life to, so many colours. He would have been poetic, even.

Romantic.

She inspired that in him. Perhaps he'd have made up something about how she was his universe, how she was the stars he stared up into when he was in the black, how she was the sun he'd wake to, the many moons he fell asleep to. Or maybe, he'd have been simple and told her, confessed, that she was the small flicker of light that was guiding him out of his lonely little hell.

But he'd said none of it.

So, he drinks.

He pours.

He stares.

And he thinks about how he should have kissed her, hard and rough, passionate and alive. He thinks about how he could have shown her how capable of love he was, that he wasn't only a bitter, mean, old soldier who'd lost a war and so much more. He could have bared himself in front of her, as naked as he's ever been. Laid it all out there, not afraid of the rejection he so rightfully deserved. Because, quite honestly, he did not deserve her. And yet, she may have loved him all the same. For all his flaws, all his insecurities, all the blood on his hands. She may have loved him still.

Weren't it possible she'd have kissed him back, even?

Melted in his arms like he'd imagined one too many times in the secret, little, happy confines of his damaged mind? That somehow, she too couldn't fathom a life without him in it? That, wherever she was in the 'verse, if it was on that same blasted little rock he'd dropped her off on, she thought of him as often as he thought of her? And maybe, the graceful companion would down a shot of whiskey every once in a while in his memory, too.

But he's uncertain of that.

Knowing better, he whisks away at the happy, hopeful thought and drinks another instead.

He pours again, and thinks on the possibilities after she'd gone and left him.

He could have chased after her, would have chased her halfway across the 'verse if it meant bringing her back. He shouldn't have left her on that stupid rock to begin with. But he'd been a coward. With her, he's always a coward. He's scared of taking the wrong step, scared of letting himself fall, of being at her mercy. He's terrified of what it would mean, and most of all, he was scared of losing her.

But, out of the fear, he's lost her all the same. It served him no purpose.

So, he drinks.

Once more.

He pours again.

The bottle is almost empty, and he's staring at what little remains.

He doesn't blink as he thinks of everything he's said to hurt her. Of all the painful words, insults, jibes.

He'd take back all of them, given the chance.

Instead, he'd use his time wisely, choosing his words more carefully, so often finding himself in her company. He'd ensure that all he made of it was bringing to light her smile and contagious laughter. He liked it when he could do that to her, liked seeing the woman behind the mask slip out, revealing herself only to him, and not those shallow clients of hers.

And when she'd need it, he'd have maybe stopped the tears, wiped them off gently with the rough pads of his fingertips. If he was careful, he could prevent them entirely, knowing full well that he was responsible for more than his fair share of them.

He'd have loved her fiercely like he'd never loved before, if she would only let him.

Instead, that man, he drinks again.

Because she hadn't asked him to let rest his long life of crime and violence.

Because she hadn't asked him to lay down his guns in exchange for a life with her.

He drinks because he knows that, if she had asked him, it would have been all it took. To live out the rest of his days with the comfort of waking up next to her, was a paradise he was never going to experience.

That old, tired man was drunk beyond his senses.

Maybe drunk enough to get on his ship and ride to the planet he'd left her on. Stupid enough to barge right in there and find her. And when he'd get there, his words would slur and his feet would stumble. But he would be crazy enough to tell her he missed her, and if he was bold enough, he'd kiss her, not caring who watched. He'd press his mouth against hers, and taste the sweetness of the balm she wore on her soft lips. She'd taste the whiskey on his.

He cheers the glass bottle to no one and then drinks all the rest, not stopping despite the burn down his throat.

To every fight.

To every argument.

To every way he's pushed her from him.

To every smile and laugh. To every tear. To every which way he could have stopped her, but didn't.

He drinks.

-.-

**A/N:** _Goes without saying Mal broods about Inara's departure. It wasn't easy on either of them, and it clearly changed him as seen in Serenity. This was a bit of a glance at that. An insight into Mal's head after she'd left. Feedback is most welcomed :)_


End file.
